The Patrician eBook

“No,” said Miltoun, “no! The
scaffolding, as you call it, is the material projection
of the architect’s conception, without which
the temple does not and cannot rise; and the architect
is God, working through the minds and spirits most
akin to Himself.”

“We are now at the bed-rock,” cried Courtier,
“your God is outside this world. Mine
within it.”

“And never the twain shall meet!”

In the silence that followed Miltoun saw that they
were in Leicester Square, all quiet as yet before
the theatres had disgorged; quiet yet waiting, with
the lights, like yellow stars low-driven from the dark
heavens, clinging to the white shapes of music-halls
and cafes, and a sort of flying glamour blanching
the still foliage of the plane trees.

“A ’whitely wanton’—­this
Square!” said Courtier: “Alive as
a face; no end to its queer beauty! And, by
Jove, if you went deep enough, you’d find goodness
even here.”

“And you’d ignore the vice,” Miltoun
answered.

He felt weary all of a sudden, anxious to get to his
rooms, unwilling to continue this battle of words,
that brought him no nearer to relief. It was
with strange lassitude that he heard the voice still
speaking:

“We must make a night of it, since to-morrow
we die.... You would curb licence from without—­I
from within. When I get up and when I go to bed,
when I draw a breath, see a face, or a flower, or a
tree—­if I didn’t feel that I was
looking on the Deity, I believe I should quit this
palace of varieties, from sheer boredom. You,
I understand, can’t look on your God, unless
you withdraw into some high place. Isn’t
it a bit lonely there?”

“You talk of tyranny! What tyranny could
equal this tyranny of your freedom? What tyranny
in the world like that of this ‘free’ vulgar,
narrow street, with its hundred journals teeming like
ants’ nests, to produce-what? In the entrails
of that creature of your freedom, Courtier, there
is room neither for exaltation, discipline, nor sacrifice;
there is room only for commerce, and licence.”

There was no answer for a moment; and from those tall
houses, whose lighted windows he had apostrophized,
Miltoun turned away towards the river. “No,”
said the voice beside him, “for all its faults,
the wind blows in that street, and there’s a
chance for everything. By God, I would rather
see a few stars struggle out in a black sky than any
of your perfect artificial lighting.”

And suddenly it seemed to Miltoun that he could never
free himself from the echoes of that voice—­it
was not worth while to try. “We are repeating
ourselves,” he said, dryly.